


You make the knife feel good

by Roxie Ann (pluvial_poetry)



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, Scars, stupid boys in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-24
Updated: 2011-05-24
Packaged: 2017-10-19 18:00:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/203689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pluvial_poetry/pseuds/Roxie%20Ann
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur got that scar when his sister (mostly) accidentally pushed him out of their tree house when he was nine. He landed on his head, split his scalp, needed 20 stitches to close the wound.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You make the knife feel good

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd.

1.

What it comes down to is that Eames is an unbearable flirt. Winking at Arthur over a drafting table when Mal turns away, a large hand finding its way to the small of Arthur's back as they step through a doorway together, licking his lips when he looks up and catches Arthur looking back at him.

Obviously Arthur sleeps with him.

"What's this, then?" Eames asks, one hand buried in the wreck of Arthur's hair, rubbing a ragged scar along the side of his right ear. He punctuates his question with a series of lazy thrusts, chuckling as Arthur pointedly tilts his hips into it. Arthur rolls his eyes and bats Eames' hand away.

"It's a scar," he says, because it's useless to demand that Eames focus on what he's doing. This is just how he is. The first two weeks of their relationship taught Arthur that Eames would wake him up in the middle of the night to ask his opinion on injecting an element of causal uncertainty into a dream level. He wants to know Arthur's feelings about the possibility of sentience in projections, he spends three hours convincing Arthur that the best way to extract on multiple levels is to introduce an illusory correlation between the first level and the next. Eames makes it into week three because it's so fucking sexy when he's discussing theory.

And this is how Arthur knows that this thing has somehow become a relationship, because it doesn't end there. Eames wants to know where he grew up, what his family is like, what Arthur does for fun. Eames wants to get to know him. Arthur just isn't sure yet if he wants to let him.

"I would ask if someone mistook your head for a block of wood, but that seems unlikely." Eames murmurs, shifting one of Arthur's legs from around his waist to hook it over his shoulder. Arthur shudders as Eames begins to fuck into him harder and chokes back a pleased moan, touching himself in quick strokes.

"Secret military experiments?" He guesses. "Or -- cybernetics? Is this where they put your control panel?" Eames asks, a little breathless, his hand creeping back up to slide over Arthur's scar again.

Arthur got that scar when his sister (mostly) accidentally pushed him out of their tree house when he was nine. He landed on his head, split his scalp, needed 20 stitches to close the wound.

Arthur closes his eyes, Eames moving inside of him, fingers pressing into his scar, and says, "Yeah, something like that."

 

2.

In Arthur's notes for their current job, Markus Bainburry is listed as a new hire for Hellecorp International. He's in the legal department and is only tangentially connected to the mark, Clyde Elridge, CFO. No one who should be a concern with the job three days away.

But his records only go back ten years, he never shows up on any of Arthur's surveillance footage, and there's a reason why Arthur is the best at what he does. He doesn't like loose ends. Something's off, and he's going to figure it out.

200 Euros buys him the fact that Bainburry walks home from work most days, which makes it simple to pick up his trail. He turns down Market Street at 5 o'clock sharp. He's easy to spot, the broad shape of him, the expensive cut of his jacket, and Arthur falls into step behind him, letting an elderly couple and a group of businessmen act as a buffer between them. He tails Bainburry down the streets of Salzburg for 10 minutes before Bainburry takes a sudden left turn down a side street. Arthur frowns, running through possible scenarios before deciding to follow him. It isn't likely that Arthur has been made, not that quickly.

A fist catches him on the chin as he turns the corner, even as Arthur moves to deflect it. It's just a graze, wouldn't have touched him at all except for the fact that Markus Bainburry wears a heavy gold signet ring on his right hand. The ring tears into Arthur's skin, blood welling up and spilling down his chin.

Arthur doesn't know which one of them is more surprised, him or Eames.

*

Later, Arthur stands in Bainburry's flat, a pocket square pressed to his face, letting Eames give him an apologetic blow job.

He seems adequately remorseful for the punch, doesn't bother with any of his usual teasing, sucking Arthur exactly how he likes it. Hard on the head of his cock, tongue a tasting pressure at the slit, firmly stroking him with the hand he has wrapped around the base of his hard-on. The ends of Arthur's shirt dangle down over his crotch, he manages to tug it up with one hand, keep it flat against his belly. Eames' mouth feels amazing, sweet and giving, but he needs to see.

Eames looks up at Arthur from under his eyelashes, eyes dark and unreadable. Arthur wishes he could tell him how good he looks like this, on his knees for him, his lips pink and shiny around Arthur's cock. But the pleasure goes hot and he can't remember how to speak as everything whites out.

It can't last long this way, Eames' mouth sloppy and unrelenting around his cock. Eames takes him in a little deeper, letting Arthur's cock bump against the roof of his mouth, and it's over.

"E-Eames," he groans, stuttering over it, as his body jerks and pulses, and he comes in Eames' mouth. Eames aims a pleased smirk up at him as he swallows neatly, pulling back from Arthur's cock with a wet, obscene noise.

Arthur doesn't collapse after, but it's a near thing. His legs wobble dangerously as he sags against the arm of the couch.

"Minka has some explaining to do. She told me no one else had a line on this job." Eames says eventually, voice gone rough. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand before tugging Arthur's boxers back into place.

Arthur rolls his eyes as he leans back, his heart rate slowly coming down to normal. "Minka also told you that she could get you past the security check at the Afghani border. When are you going to stop believing everything she says?"

Eames makes a non-committal noise, getting to his feet. His erection tents the front of his pants, but he doesn't seem inclined to do anything about it just yet. He cages Arthur in against the couch with his body, tipping Arthur's head up to peek under the cloth of his handkerchief at the wound.

"You'll have a scar."

Arthur, sliding a knee between Eames' thighs, letting Eames settle his weight into it, rocking slightly, waiting for the moment when the color goes high in Eames' cheeks, doesn't respond for a long moment. Then he shrugs and says philosophically, "It's not my first."

 

3.

He doesn't work with Eames for the next four jobs that he takes and Arthur won't deny that he finds it frustrating. He likes Eames, both as a co-worker and as a bed partner. He doesn't have a problem admitting it to himself. Eames is intelligent, competent, creative, attractive. Arthur could do worse. Has done worse. And yeah, the sex is great. Amazing, honestly, probably some of the best sex he's ever had. There's also the fact that this thing with Eames has somehow become one of the only consistent parts of his life. Which is kind of pathetic when Arthur thinks about it.

When the fifth job needs a forger, Arthur hires Eames, and doesn't beat himself up over it. The sex really is that good.

The job is more complex than most, and Arthur has been awake for 3 straight days, hacking into encrypted databases and running code-breaking algorithms on the mined data, otherwise he wouldn't be telling this story.

"And who uses a fucking bayonet anymore?" he finishes, and it might sound a little bitter, but seriously. Who gets stabbed by a bayonet? He's standing barefoot in his hotel room, down to his shirt sleeves, showing off the scar that bisects the back of his left arm.

"Civil War experts." Eames doesn't seem particularly impressed, sprawled out in a desk chair, file folders stacked up behind him. He's been awake almost as long as Arthur and his eyes are heavy-lidded, dark shadows smeared underneath them. He shifts in his chair, crosses his legs at his ankles and the movement stretches his pants tight, shows off the breadth of his thighs. It makes Arthur's mouth go dry.

"That's my worst one," he says.

"That scratch?" Eames asks. He laughs a little then, condescending as hell, rubbing a hand over the stubble on his cheek. He hasn't shaved since he flew in from Mombasa. The scruff looks good on him. It would also probably feel good against Arthur's belly but he doesn't let that distract him from the challenge in Eames' voice. He sniffs derisively.

"You have a better one?"

Eames stands to yank his shirt and undershirt over his head in one smooth movement, revealing tanned skin and the black ink of the tattoos on his arms and chest. Arthur takes a deep, steadying breath as Eames swivels slightly to show the scar on his shoulder.

"Artifact from my misspent youth." He pulls down the waistband of his pants slightly, to show the nadir of the scar over his hip, looking over at Arthur, tired and questioning. The atmosphere in the room goes suddenly close and tense. When Arthur follows the scar down, he sees Eames' cock is straining against the confines of his pants, thick and obvious. Arthur looks up and raises a haughty eyebrow, licks his lips before taking a languid step closer to Eames. Apparently they'd been playing a different game than Arthur thought they were.

"You think that's better than mine?"

He's familiar with that particular scar, has spent more than one night enthusiastically tracing it with his tongue, memorizing the path it takes across the muscular plane of Eames' back, curving around to his hipbone. It's been a long time since he's had the chance to do that.

It's easy now, drunk with exhaustion and want, to let his voice go dark with intent, "I may need to take a closer look at it," he says, and does.

 

4.

"We won't know about any residual nerve damage for a while."

"A while." It comes out harsher than Arthur intended, but after two days in the hospital where no one could or would answer his questions, the fact that even now no one can give him a little specificity is starting to wear on his nerves.

"A month, possibly longer. Of course he'll have a scar." The doctor smiles down at Eames, a bid to lighten the mood. When Eames smiles back it's slow, drugged, and it doesn't quite manage to mask the pain in his eyes.

So Arthur doesn't bother to tone down the sarcasm with which he says, "Of course." The doctor's face tightens but he doesn't drop the smile.

"Arthur." Eames says, a soft placating tone, reaching up and brushing his fingers against Arthur's wrist. Arthur can see the edge of the red, puckered line of stitches at Eames' wound where he's already picked at and loosened his bandage. Arthur puts his hand in his pocket, grabs onto his die hard enough that its edges dig into his palm, and tries to hold on to his temper.

The doctor looks down at his chart and asks, "How did you say this happened?"

What happened was some asshole with a machete had taken offense to Eames' fluid interpretation of the rules during a game of cards, and Arthur had to pull a gun in the middle of an alley outside of a Nigerian drug den to get Eames out of there with most of his hand still intact. What happened was a long car ride to a hospital where a stack of bills would distract from their lack of paperwork or identification. What happened was that Eames had been injured, and Arthur had been scared out of his mind.

That was when Arthur realized that this thing with Eames would cut him to pieces if he let it.

"Cooking accident." Arthur says.

 

5.

They don't work together for another year after that, not until the Fischer job. This is a conscious choice on Arthur's part. It seems prudent at the time. They both have enough scars.

But they need a new extractor after Dom retires, and Ariadne steadfastly refuses to work with anyone other than Eames. This is fine with Arthur, because he is a professional.

Eames arrives in Paris on a Tuesday afternoon. Tuesday night they get piss drunk off of a bottle of Macallan in Eames' hotel bar. Eames gets handsy, grabs his ass, and Arthur doesn't deck him. Which is pretty much exactly how they got started doing this in the first place.

They make-out in the elevator on their way up to Eames' room, kissing slick and deep, Eames' stubble rubbing his face raw, Eames' hands still groping at Arthur's ass.

Eames pulls back, sets his teeth around the white scar on Arthur's jaw, the mark he left on him in Salzburg, and bites down until Arthur groans.

Arthur lets himself forget when they're in different cities, on separate continents. Lets himself think that he and Eames would never work out. That he doesn't want to deal with all of Eames' bullshit on a regular basis. It seems stupid now, because he was missing this. He missed this.

"I missed this." Arthur says, because he's drunk, and he can't help himself.

Eames laughs, low in Arthur's ear.

"Arthur." He sounds impossibly fond.

They manage to stumble out of the elevator and the short walk to Eames' hotel room, briefly scandalizing an older woman who happens to step into the hallway as Eames fumbles with the key to the door and Arthur is fumbling with Eames' belt buckle. The door swings open and closed on her shocked face.

They've already shed most of their clothes by the time they make it to the bedroom, kissing, running their hands over each other's bodies. Arthur's hard and aching for it already, he wants Eames inside of him, wants it now.

Arthur falls back on the bed, gives Eames a predatory look before hooking his legs around the back of Eames' and tugging hard until Eames stumbles down on top of him.

The sound Arthur makes is pleased. The gasp Eames lets out is less so.

"What?" Arthur asks, as Eames winces and rubs at his left leg.

"Still a bit tender." he says apologetically and at Arthur's blank look he kicks out of his pants, flops down on the bed on his back to let Arthur see. The scar is on his thigh, coiling around the muscle, still shiny and vividly pink. It's new. Arthur doesn't know the story behind this one. He stares at it for a blank moment. It takes him a second to process what he's feeling. He hadn't known that Eames had been hurt, hadn't been there when it happened. And it bothers him.

Eames wiggles out of his underwear, his cock hard, jutting away from his stomach. And impatiently when Arthur doesn't move, raises an eyebrow.

Arthur shakes his head to clear it. "Sorry, sorry," he says. "Here, like this." And straddles Eames' hips.

They fuck close and claustrophobic, tangled together, with Arthur whispering, "Yeah, like that," as he raises and lowers himself down on Eames' cock. He'd let himself forget just how good it is. How Eames feels inside of him, the fullness, the heat.

His own cock is leaking already, droplets of precome sliding down the shaft, and he cries out, needy and desperate when Eames gets a hand around him. Eames strokes him lazily, fingers light and loose, and it shouldn't be enough. He shouldn't be able to get off on that, but he is. He feels it pressing at him, pleasure surrounding him, heavy and dominant. His face goes hot, mouth drops open. He doesn't have the strength to lift himself up, so he grinds down on Eames' cock as his orgasm hits, brutal and too quick, and he spills his release over Eames' stomach.

He tilts forward in the wake of it, lets Eames pet his hair, fingers sliding through the sweaty strands around his face, curving them back around his ears. And then Eames' hands are down under his thighs, urging him up again, settling him into a rhythm, hard and jolting. Eames is close, shuddering under him, hands clenched around Arthur's hips as Arthur rides him to the finish. When he comes, Arthur pulls him in tight, one arm wrapped around his shoulders.

They stay like that, locked together, Eames' cock still half-hard inside of him. Arthur should get up, they should shower, but his legs feel like jelly. And he doesn't want to move.

"I'm never moving again," he says, and he knows he sounds ridiculously happy about it, knows that he's grinning.

Eames hums quietly in agreement, straining up to press light kisses to Arthur's cheeks and the soft creases of his dimples.

*

He wakes up in sweat soaked sheets with Eames tucked in against him, Eames' mouth slack and pressed into the side of Arthur's neck, a hand still curled possessively around his ass. _Oh_ , he thinks. _This isn't the game I thought we were playing_.

What it comes down to now is that Arthur's been hurt before. His break-up with Rory had shaved away little pieces of him, he'd sliced himself up over Luis, then Connor, and Piotr. He's been cut open in ways that he hadn't known that he would heal from.

If he gives Eames access to that now, to all his broken and wounded places, all his vulnerabilities, there's no guarantee that somewhere down the line it won't end badly for them. He thinks - _I should get up, now, walk away while I can, before it gets bloody_.

He stays.

He gets up in the morning after Eames eventually migrates to the other side of the bed. He showers, puts on his pants from yesterday, and brews coffee.

By the time Eames stumbles out of the bedroom after noon, hungover and scowling, wearing a pair of ridiculous blue sweatpants that Arthur hopes have never been seen outside of the privacy of Eames' home before, Arthur has already dug out Eames' laptop and has three different reports of a sub-par point man working out of Akita, a failed extraction, and how many stitches it takes to close a 10 inch cut from a stiletto blade. All before he finished his second cup of coffee.

Eames accepts a cup of coffee gratefully, and sits in companionable silence next to him as Arthur thinks over his options. He's gone down the line of thought that ends with Eames not being a part of his future. And at the opposite end of it, there's what it would be like without Eames in his life now. Which, not really surprisingly, isn't worth thinking about at all.

"From now on we don't work with anyone else." Arthur announces. A beat and then, "Are you going to take those sweatpants off yourself or are you going to make me take them off of you?"

It doesn't matter if this thing with Eames ends up hurting him. It feels good now. That's a scar Arthur can live with.

**Author's Note:**

> I meant this fic to be 500 words of porn about scar one-upmanship, born out of watching **Lethal Weapon 3** too many times at a formative age. Somehow that turned into 3000 words about making yourself vulnerable to another person. Yeah. I don't know what my issue is either...


End file.
